


Memories in France

by Classical_Trash



Series: Those were the days, my friend [1]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, I'm Not Ashamed, I'm Sorry, M/M, My First Fanfic, will add more tags as i continue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2020-05-20 13:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 11,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19377910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Classical_Trash/pseuds/Classical_Trash
Summary: Smithson remembers a lot of things, but France will remain in his head until he dies. The sounds, smell, he remembers it all. Sometimes he wished he didn't though.





	1. The First Times.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear reader,  
> This is my first ever published Fanfiction. It's nerve-wrecking to type out this note, but I have confidence! Very little confidence, but enough to help me. Forgive me for any errors, English is not my first language. 
> 
> Enjoy, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

Smithson remembered the first time he scalped someone. The knife he used cut like a pro. Luckily, he remembered the things his mother taught him. _If you want clean cuts, do not use your knife like a saw._ Clean cuts, that spurt out droplets of blood on Smithson’s pale skin. It was sickening, but it relieved him when the process was finished. The hairs that were attached to the cut off scalp made him laugh. It was grossly funny. He returned the neatly cut scalp to Lt. Aldo Raine. Receiving a pat on the back, and a “Good job, sport,” comment from the Lieutenant. Smithson felt proud. As the days go on, he perfected his technique. His scalps unique from the rest.

Smithson Utivich remembers the first time he almost lost a piece of himself. It probably happened in the first two weeks of being sent out into the harsh winter of the French countryside. Luckily, Donny Donnowitz was near him. Taking out the Nazi soldier brutally with the wooden bat Donny took everywhere he went. It glistened with red trickling down the light wood. Dried up chunks of flesh sticking to it. The bat was a sight to behold, and Donny was proud of it. He held it like a trophy, and Smithson doesn’t think he’ll ever clean it. It might have smelled like horseshit, but Donny didn’t care.

“Gotta be careful, Smit, don’t’ wanna die that quickly,” Smithson remembered Donny’s thick, Boston accent, and toothy grin. His eyes expecting a _'_ _thank you’_ that Smithson will give him.

Smithson remembers hearing the planes that soared above. The loud aircrafts, making him look up in curiosity. The white trails looked almost dazzling in the blue skies. The planes introduced Smithson to the one thing that’ll soothe him. The sky. The window into his life in Manhattan. The blue sky that he grew up underneath. The only thing that he brought with him to France, that will always stay the same.

Smithson remembers the first meal. He remembers the days before he joined the Basterds, and the people around him talking about the disgusting grull they serve. He had low expectations for the food. So, when he took the first spoonful, he was pleasantly surprised. Omar, who sat two feet away from him, frowned. Earning a scowl from Donny and Aldo. Sometimes Smithson would think back on his moms cooking. Almost forgetting how it tasted. It seems like he was forgetting his life before France. But the faint music playing outside the streets of his parents’ upstairs apartment would come back. The streetlamps that were always on seemed like stars in Smithson’s mind. Whenever he closes his eyes to leave the bland trees and dirt floor, he’ll be back in his family’s bookshop. The dusty typewriter in the back of everything, and the clean, fresh books on the closest shelves to the doors. The colorful covers that gave the shelves life. The titles that sparked the curiosity in Smithson’s mind. He was glad that he took a book from home with him but could not wait to go back to Manhattan. To taste his mothers Borscht again, for his father to ask him to help in the bookshop every Tuesday. Smithson remembers the first time he cried in France, but he could only go down from there.


	2. A Beautiful Language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

Smithson doesn’t know a lick of Hebrew, or Yiddish. Kagan was fluent in both, Hirschberg was learning, and Omar knew only Yiddish. Smithson knew Polish. The language that his parents would tell stories in, when Smithson was little. The language that they sang his birthday song in. The one that would comfort him in the worst of times. To hear this Nazi soldier, violate Smithson’s beautiful language, angered him. His only thoughts were to kill the Nazi. To silence him. To scalp him alive. Polish did not need to be said from that man’s mouth. Donny told him to not worry, that most of the time they don’t bother to answer Aldo’s questions. He was the only Nazi left. He shouldn’t kill him. He must endure his precious language being used to hate innocent people. His precious language being used to hurt the-

A gunshot whistled throughout the forest, as Smithson watched the Nazi fall on his face.  Hugo Stiglitz shot him.

“Goddamnit, Stiglitz,” Aldo sighed, looking down at the dead body. Smithson stood next to it. Smiling.

“He was too loud,” Hugo grumbled, walking closer to the dead body. He looked at Smithson for a short minute, before going down to scalp the man. Smithson remembers almost snapping in France, but Hugo did it for him.


	3. The Feeling of Safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the short chapters, but they allow me to update every week! I'll try to make them longer, but nonetheless,   
> Enjoy the chapter :)
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

“Ihr dummt, Basterds,” The Nazi took out his gun, his boot on top of Smithson’s chest. Smithson’s breath hitched; his blue eyes wide _. I’m going to die here._ Smithson felt his stomach twist. _I’m going to die here._ The thought was all over his head, disorganized and in a state of panic. He’s going to die here, in the harsh dirt and leaves. Under the foot of a fascist soldier, with a stupid Pistol aimed at his head.

So, when he heard the squishy sounds of a knife piercing skin, he released a quick breath. The Nazi was pushed aside, and Smithson saw Hugo and his scowl. Hugo dropped his gun onto Smithson’s chest. It hurt a little bit, but he smiled. Smithson sat up, and watched Hugo scalp the dead man. Perhaps Hugo was a bit slow in his scalping, but Smithson didn’t want to say anything that wasn’t ‘Thank you’.

“Thanks for saving me, Stiglitz,” Smithson smiled, when Hugo turned to look to him. His smile was wide, relieved that he was still breathing. Hugo looked away.

He stood up, lending Smithson his free hand. They look at each other for a short second and Hugo starts walking, Smithson following him. The forest was peaceful as the young Jew tries to calm down his beating heart. He remembers everything feeling peaceful. That everything felt safe for a moment.


	4. A Night of Bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I would update so soon, but with recent events, I might have to. Please be aware that I may not update next week, but you never know what will happen. On that note, please enjoy. 
> 
>  
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

It was Sakowitz’s birthday. So, Aldo decided to celebrate in a French village that Smithson couldn’t care to remember the name. They sat in a bar; Smithson close to the bartender due to him knowing the most French. The bartender, Eugene, was nice and polite, he didn’t question the English, but told Smithson to make sure they steer clear from Windows every so often. Sakowitz was dancing with a blonde woman. Smithson thinks that he didn’t know her name, but the two didn’t seem to care. The lieutenant, Donny, and Zimmerman were playing a “good” game of Blackjack. Wilhelm and Hugo were sitting in the corner, murmuring in German. Hugo watching Sakowitz and the blonde woman. Smithson felt a tap on his shoulder, and he looked back to Eugene the bartender.

“Would you like a drink?” The French man asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Smithson nodded, “Whiskey, please,” Eugene nodded, turning around to fix him up a glass. The music playing was upbeat and happy. The woman singer reminded him of the girls who wore fashionable dresses. The exact dresses Smithson’s mother would call ‘scandalous’ Smithson fondly remembered. Eugene settled a glass in front of Smithson, who muttered a quiet thank you.

“It’s on the house,” Eugene smiled at him, making Smithson smile back. “Including your friends but,” he leaned onto the counter, “don’t tell your friends that.” The two laughed, their voices echoing slightly throughout the tavern. Smithson felt eyes on him, a sense that developed in France. He ignores it though, as the music changes into something slower. Smithson holds the tiny glass in his left hand, looking around the bar. Sakowitz and the blonde woman were sitting down. The woman was talking in somewhat broken English, and Sakowitz nodded along with a goofy grin. Smithson looks to Wilhelm and Hugo’s table, the two were smoking and still chatting. Aldo, Donny and Zimmerman were still playing Blackjack. Surprisingly, Zimmerman was winning with a cocky smirk on his face. Everything felt normal for once as Smithson downed his drink, eyes still on him. He remembers that day being calm and almost dreamlike, and Smithson wished it happened more.


	5. A Night of Eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe everything that has tried to keep me away from writing is all taken care of. I hope to edit and write more chapters that have been piling in my computer.
> 
> As always, please enjoy, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

“Why are you up, Utivich?” Smithson heard behind him; the voice easily recognizable. Hugo sat down next to Smithson. The dirt floor, and dry leaves were weirdly comfortable that night. Smithson rested his hands between his crossed legs. His fingers fiddling with the dead leaves.

“The stars seemed tempting tonight,” The Jewish man hummed, pointing to the brightest star in the sky. Smithson eyes were amazed by the sight. “I never got to see this in Manhattan,” Hugo nodded, looking up to where Smithson was pointing.  “My sister travelled a lot, and she told me her favorite thing was looking at the stars. Never got why until now.”  Smithson rested his arm, his hands holding each other in a slight need for warmth. “They really are pretty.”

“Meine mutter, she always said that stars are eyes,” Hugo whispered with a fond smile on his face. Smithson remembers the smile was faint, but he found it charming. “Said that they were the eyes of God and his angels, and that earth was the stage, and we were gods’ puppets.”

“An interesting way of thinking,” Smithson chuckled. He quickly glanced to the German, the smile growing on Hugo’s face. “Do you think of it like that?”

“I do,” Hugo hummed, and Smithson looked back to him to find Hugo looking at him. The German looked away immediately, Smithson doing the same, his face in a disappointed frown. Smithson stood up, looking up into the watching stars that mocked him.

“Goodnight, Stiglitz,” Smithson said with a polite tone, turning around, and walking away.


	6. Questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone has had a good weekend, I certainly did. I truly apologize for short chapters. I will try to do longer chapters, but with weekly updates I don't know if it will work. But, as always, enjoy. 
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

Smithson remembers the scar on Hugo’s neck that seemed to trail down his back. He remembers asking about it, just out of pure curiosity. Hugo dismissed his question, saying that he didn’t need to know. He respected Hugo’s answer, but the curiosity of the scars origins always remained in Smithson’s mind.

Smithson reached 95 scalps before he knew it. Most of the Basterds congratulated him. The Lieutenant giving him a pat on the back and a father like smile. He did find himself thinking about the significant number during night patrol. Ninety-five.  The number making his stomach quench, and head spin. He thought the number would make him happy, but it’s left him with headache induced questions that he never bothered to answer.


	7. A Beat in The Night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is everyone today? Whether you're having a bad or good day today, I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

In the comfort of the dark sky, Hugo and Smithson sat next to each other. A thick quietness filled the tiny space between the two. Smithson was reading his book, and Hugo was sharpening his knife. The two found themselves in this same position during multiple nights of restlessness. It was a common occurrence that Smithson did not mind; he quite liked Hugo’s silent company. Sometimes Hugo will ask the other man about his book. Smithson tries not to ramble in his answers, but, he finds it difficult not to. He did not expect this random novel he brought with him to be a thrilling adventure. The book had Smithson at the edge of his metaphorical seat, making the Jewish man impatient sometimes. If Smithson was observing well, Hugo seemed amused at the younger man’s excitement. But that night, Smithson was tired. His body was aching to fall asleep. He did try to read at least a little bit, but Smithson’s mind was already drifting away from his book. The quick, high-pitched sounds of metal being sharpened were almost soothing. Hugo seemed to be sharpening rhythmically. The younger man tapped his index finger with the beat, for what seemed like a while. Smithson stops trying to stay awake and lets his eyes close. The book he held dropped into Smithson’s lap, letting his hands rest.

Smithson woke up to bright, cloudy skies, and his comrades cursing the new day. he finds himself laying down on his makeshift bed. When did he get here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know who wants this, but I do have a Spotify playlist for my work! It's not really anything that correlates to the story, just songs that inspire me or remind me of Memories in France.   
> Here's the link!
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7igtWRYliIMWDdg1ALxyvl


	8. A Unidentified Feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, I don't really have anything to say for this note so please, enjoy.
> 
>  
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

In the late afternoon with the vague smell of smoke in the air, everyone was waiting for their grub. Donny was cutting firewood, and Smithson stood nearby to keep him company.

“Ya know, Smitty,” Donny starts, grabbing Smithson’s attention as the former continues with his beatless chopping. “This reminds me of home. When I was younger, Ma always made me chop wood when the trees stopped being green, and neighbors would pay for me to help them,” Donny chuckles, “My first job was this!”

“Huh, that’s kind of sweet,” Smithson smiles, “My first job was to restock all the books in my parents' store, didn’t get paid for it though,” he mutters the last part, but Donny heard and laughed at the slight realization. “It’s not like I was good at it anyways. I’d probably put away three books, then find one I like and start reading.”

“Is that how you became such a smartass, huh?” Donny asked, and Smithson just shrugged.

“I think school did that to me.”

“Well, it ain’t such a bad thing-” Smithson didn’t hear what Donny was about to say when behind him he heard his name in a low tone. Smithson turns around to see Hugo standing there with his arms crossed in front of his chest, and a tiny book in his hand. Smithson quickly shot a smile and was about to greet the man until he saw the book in his hand.

“What do you have there?” Smithson asked, eyes flickering to Hugo’s, then back to the book.

“You dropped it last night,” Hugo answered, handing the pocket-sized book back to Smithson. “I read the first few chapters.” Smithson looks down at the book in his hands. He didn’t even know he had lost it. Smithson always thought that it was in his pack.

“Oh, what did you think of it?” Smithson asked, slightly tilting his head when he looked back up to Hugo.

“The main character, Charlotte, yes?” Smithson nods, “She deserves better,” Hugo simply stated, making Smithson chuckle. Hugo’s charming, faint smile is back once more and lingers on for the remainder of this short interaction.

“She does, doesn’t she?” Smithson trailed off. The two staring at each other for a few, uninterrupted seconds. “Well, I’m almost done with it, would you like to take it when I’m done?”

“Sure, why not?” Hugo shrugged, and the two nod in agreement. The German looks behind Smithson, making the younger man remember that Donny was there. “Goodbye, Utivich,” Hugo turned around and walked back to where he came from. After watching for a moment, Smithson turns around to a staring Donny.

“You and Stiglitz are friends, huh?” Donny asked, but it felt more like a statement. “I kinda knew you two would get along.”

“I think he just tolerates me, Donny, we don’t talk to each other much anyway.”  

“Well, he talks to you and Wicki more than he talks to any other person here, that’s for sure,” Donny waves the axe in his hand, pointing it to Smithson.

“Maybe if you didn’t yell all the time, he would talk to you more,” Smithson retorted, earning a chunk of wood being half-assed thrown at him. It landed by his feet, and Smithson picked it up, feeling the splinters of wood pricking his hands. “Stiglitz talks to everyone; I’ve seen him do it.”

“If ya say so,” Donny shrugs, continuing his wood cutting. “Smitty, can ya check on the food? I don’t trust anyone besides you and Kagan with that shit,”

“Yessir” Smithson nods and walks away. The book in his soft grasp, and a weird urge to look for Hugo.

It was raining that night, and everyone was underneath trees as the Moon watches them in a brilliant glow. Maybe it was the little raindrops that fell onto Hugo’s skin. Maybe it was the cold winds that became harsher every minute that made Smithson’s cheeks a rosy red. But cold winds and rain never made Smithson’s poor stomach churn like this before.  
 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now the "real" romance sort of starts. Of course, nothing will happen until a bit later on, but I promise you all that stuff will happen! I'll try my best to deliver soon!
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Classical_Trash


	9. Cigarettes bring Warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I was expecting to update tomorrow, but here I am! Since Summer is almost over, I will be putting my focus on other things that I need to do. I will most likely be updating less frequently but longer chapters. You'll probably see me every other Monday or Tuesday. But, I'll update weekly for the next month or so.  
> Enjoy. 
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

The forest was nothing but mundane weather, and irritated soldiers. Supplies were low and hostility rises as everyone smokes sparingly now. Smithson wasn’t an avid smoker but even he felt some sort of withdrawal. So, when he was told to head down to the town by Aldo, a feeling of relief ran through him. For the past few days, Smithson feared that one of his comrades might eat him alive.

His adventure into the town was a bit long. He didn’t know where anything was, but a nice lady named Eloise showed him around. If Smithson could write to his family, he would most likely tell them about this little town that was filled with a lurking despondency but painted with bright colors and happiness.

The sky was filled with swirly orange and purple when he returned. Aldo thanked him when Smithson gave him the bag full of things, and the leftover money.

“Thank god you’re back,” Aldo grins, leaning in closer to Smithson, a hand on his shoulder. “Hugo’s been a bit pissier ever since you left, so go talk to him. Give him a cigarette too,” Aldo suggested, patting Smithson’s shoulder and pushing him to the direction of a brooding Hugo. The German sat underneath a tree. His arms crossed, and his attention on Smithson and the Lieutenant. Aldo looks at the two before leaving for the more crowded area of the camp. Smithson walked over to Hugo, a friendly smile on his face as he got closer.

“Hey, Stiglitz,” Smithson waved his hand, “Whatcha doing?”

“Getting a break from the loudness,” Hugo says, prompting Smithson to sit down next to him. “I was hoping you would have given Donnowitz a bat when you returned.” Smithson sits closely to the right of him, a feeling of warmth blossomed and the two welcomed it. “He’s been swinging around that axe like an idiot.”

“I tried looking around but no store there sells bats. I wasn’t going to steal from some kid, but I did think about doing it,” Smithson jokes, making Hugo chuckle. “You want a cigarette?” He asks with a warm smile.

“Sure,” Smithson reaches into his pocket and grabs the pack that he took for himself. He opens it, putting one in his mouth, and taking another out for Hugo. The other man took out his lighter and lit his. Smithson moved his face closer to Hugo’s lighter, letting the cigarette end burn. He looks up to Hugo for a second, watching him watch the flame and Smithson smiles. He retracts his head and looks up, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to exhale. “May I ask something?” Hugo nods at him, letting Smithson continue. “When did you start smoking?” Hugo thinks about it for what seemed like 2 minutes.

 “Maybe a little bit before I was 16,” Hugo shrugs. “My father gave me one, and I just got hooked, if that’s the right term,” Hugo looks to Smithson for confirmation, and the Jewish man nods. “How about you?”

“Oh, uh, well,” Smithson smiles. A nervous air surrounding him. “My last year of high school, I was stressing out big time with my final exam,” Smithson pauses, “My long-time friend, Adam, takes me out to walk around Manhattan for the entire afternoon. He gives me a cigarette and lights it up, I told him that I’ve never smoked before, and he says it's easy, and just sticks the thing in my mouth!” Smithson looks to Hugo, a smile on his face that was covered a bit by white, swirls of smoke. “I don’t hold it against him anymore, he was just trying to cheer me up. I wonder what he’s doing now,” Smithson whispered the end. His eyes wandering. A quietness fell upon them, a comfortable feeling as cigarettes continue to burn. The memory of that charming smile will most likely linger for the rest of the day in Smithson’s mind. “Have you ever been to America?”

“No.”

“Would you ever go to America?”

“If I make it out of alive, your Lieutenant will just force me to go,” Hugo answers, looking over to the rambunctious group of people around a fire. Smithson looks to them as well.

“Well, you are a certified Basterd. It would make no sense if we were to go back and celebrate.  He wouldn’t want you to stay here in Europe when you helped us,” Smithson smiles, his cigarette now a dud, he tosses it to the ground, putting dead leaves and dirt on top of it.

“Celebrate with drunk versions of them?” He points to the Donny and Omar arguing about something about singers. “I’ll think about it.” Smithson snorts, a light fluttering in his stomach at the answer. It was most likely the cigarettes, Smithson thought. He hasn’t had one in quite a while; he lies to himself. The two sat there watching their comrades. Cigarettes tossed to the floor, and Smithson slightly sinking into the warmth that Hugo seemed to give off. _Sitting next to him was quite nice,_ Smithson decided. And if Hugo inched a bit closer to Smithson, the younger man didn’t notice. Or maybe he simply didn’t care to be close to the man. It felt safe near him, and Smithson wanted that feeling of security more often.


	10. A Flicker in The Woods: Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Dear reader, how are you all today? I've been having trouble writing lately, and I blame my "Writer's block". I apologize in advance if anything seems off.  
> As always though, enjoy. 
> 
> Love,
> 
> Classical_Trash

Smithson is continuously drowning in guilt. Everything about France reminds him of his sister’s letters. She described France almost like Heaven, but all he sees is Earth.  Bland, and harsh. Smithson knows that in different circumstances, his feelings would be like his sisters. If things were different, if she was alive, he would most likely adore the French forests, but everything here is flooded with jumbled words of praise for the country that destroys the scenery.

Sometimes when he wakes up, everything is black and white. Greys here and there and Smithson can only hear his parents reading aloud their eldest child’s letters ringing in his mind. When mornings like that happen, he learns to ignore it all, and find a place where no one will bother him. Where he’ll sit down and close his eyes. In those scattered, quiet moments, he forgets he’s in war, and he’ll feel a warmth in his body. The feeling is always fleeting though, and once it’s gone, he’ll go back to his comrades and ignore the worried glances from Aldo and Donny. The only people that know the troubles that plague his mind. Even when everything seems normal, Smithson sees her in the background of everything. It frightens him, but he deserves his torment.

He killed her anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When planning my story out, I always wanted The sister to be a background character. But I like the idea of Smithson being haunted by her and it works out with what I have in mind. Expect to see more of her.


	11. Multiples of Smithson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been very experimental with my writing, and that's what inspired me to write this chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

Smithson did everything Aldo told him to do. It was a fact that he would not hesitate to carry out orders. He just finds the man intimidating. From the worn scar on his neck to the constant sound of authority he gave out. Everything about him was just- well, attractive if Smithson wanted to think about Aldo in that way. He had an aura that intrigued Smithson, but of course, Hugo had something akin to Aldo. The authoritativeness to him was present, but not necessarily needed. Aldo is their leader, the man who calls most of the shots. Hugo was very much in the background of everything. Smithson believes Hugo isn’t deflecting anyone, but he just seemed to like the quietness. Perhaps that is the reason why he seemed to like people of Wilhelm’s character. Quiet and intelligent. It seems like Hugo’s type. _Like Hugo’s type._ Smithson blushes, waving the thought off. Why was he thinking about “Hugo’s type” anyway? The recent thinking about everything related to the German was frequent. It wasn’t expected, and it certainly wasn’t entirely welcomed.

When Smithson was in college, he had more opportunities to experiment. Women were pretty and nice but just didn’t have the same “oomph” as men. Of course, he’s seen the Homosexual Cure posters, and because of them, he felt ashamed of some aspects of his sexuality, and many men that he has dated before having said the same.

College Smithson was separate from Manhattan Smithson and War-time Smithson.

College Smithson was what most people would call “Wild.” He was a flirt, a homewrecker; He was everything Smithson always wanted to be. College Smithson never experienced guilt or shame in who he was, and he just had fun. Maybe that part of him was a coping mechanism for his sister. Or maybe he was the rebellious phase Smithson never had in his early teens. What he does know is that when war came around, College Smithson had to grow up. War-time Smithson was a wreck, nervous, and passive. War-time Smithson was lost and afraid and needed help. Maybe that’s why he does whatever he’s told. If that’s what Smithson needs to do in order to live, to see his family again, then he’ll do it. People will think of him as a coward, but Smithson thinks of himself as quiet and intelligent.

He was precisely the type for war.

Exactly the type for Hugo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Smithson a lot, I know.
> 
> Kudos's and comments are always appreciated.


	12. The Sickness of Youth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dear readers.  
> I would say that I'm ready to finish this story and that I feel ready to pump out chapters every week, but no. I couldn't handle that, unfortunately.  
> I believe I was haven't written anything for this in two months? However long doesn't matter anyway. I'm back! Yay, and I'm glad to finally have the inspiration to write once more.  
> I'd like to thank Sade12 for taking the time to give me amazing advice. Their words of inspiration made me want to work harder on this, and I hope you all enjoy the chapter :))
> 
> Love, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

Smithson takes a deep breath and exhales, watching the steam come out of his mouth, and into the cold French air. Smithson was sitting down on a log that was cut down by Donny. There's a fire right in front of the New-Yorker, and he puts his hands close enough to take in some heat. It might’ve been bright outside, but the fire radiated everything near it in a yellow glow. Omar and Sakowitz were behind the large fire, talking about Sakowitz’s fiancé back in America.

The recent weather hasn’t been good for Smithson. It snowed two days ago, and the winds have been at its harshest. Smithson will never live down the time when the wind blew him down to the ground. The feeling of the light layer of snow on his face, and the laughter of his comrades making him even more awful.

His stomach churns, and he feels ready to throw up. But he takes a deep breath, and he puts his hands on his face. The warmth his hands stole from the fire making Smithson feel better.

A tap on his shoulder startles Smithson, and he hears a chuckle.

“Morning, Smitty.” Smithson looks behind him to see a smiling Andy Kagan with a steaming cup of coffee.

“Have some coffee.”

“Thank you, I really needed this,” Smithson hums, taking a quick sip of the hot liquid, a smile blooming on his face. “Do you want some?”

Andy shakes his head and takes a seat right next to Smithson, and the two watch the fire. Smithson sees the person next to him lean closer, something in his eyes that perturbed him. Smithson looks directly at him, and Andy expresses concern.

“I may be out of line, but are you,” Andy bites his lip, a nervous tick that Smithson noticed with his friend. “Are you _okay?_ ”

“Am I okay?” Smithson mutters, a bit shocked by the question, but he can’t be angry. Smithson admits to acting a bit off lately. The weather has Smithson feeling disgusting and light and disgusting once more, and his vision spins, forcing him to close his eyes.

He feels worn. Sick and faint, and he knows that it’s visible when Andy puts a hand to Smithson’s forehead.

“Jesus, Smitty, how are you so warm?” Andy states and Smithson mumbles a quiet ‘I don’t know.’

“Drink your coffee, I’ll get ya your blanket. Stay close to the fire.”

“Okay, Mom,” Smithson grins, and Andy snorts. He slaps the grinning Jewish man on his shoulder, leaving him with the fire, and a cup of coffee that was quick to lose its warmth. He takes a few sips of it and settles the cup on the floor close to the fire.

Smithson looks behind the flame and realizes that Sakowitz and Omar have left, and instead, Wilhelm has replaced the two.

The Austrian-born man looks up to Smithson, a dull cigarette flicked into the fire with a certain flair.

Wilhelm smiles.

“Have you ever watched the movie, Snow White?”

Smithson shakes his head ‘no’ His head pulses, and he winces.

“Well, you fit the description of the princess, Smithson,” Wilhelm teases, making the younger man flush. He hears the deep chuckle, and looks away, burying his face into his hands. The darkness was a slight relief, letting his eyes rest.

“I do not mean to offend.” Wilhelm’s tone changes and Smithson looks back up to Wilhelm, an apologetic smile on his face.

“It’s okay,” Smithson states, “I was just startled is all. I don’t get many compliments unless you count ‘are you 16?’ a compliment,” He trails off, and smiles when he hears Wilhelm laugh.

“Looking young is a gift, Smithson. There’s a certain charm to it that people like.” Wilhelm fishes into his coat pocket and takes out a weirdly clean cigarette. “I’m not one to be attracted to youth, but plenty of people are.” His tone seems all-knowing, making Smithson curious, but his headache doesn’t let him question further. Wilhelm leans forward and lights the end with the bonfire. Smithson tries not to stare, but he is in awe by Wilhelm’s actions.

He envies his composure and slick movements that fit with his fluid way of speaking. Everything about the man was captivating; he almost seems unreal. Smithson could name dozens of characters that are deemed “cool” or “keen” that perfectly resemble Wilhelm Wicki.

Wilhelm looks over the New-Yorker, prompting Smithson to turn around and see Andy and Donny’s figures walk towards him. He can vaguely see a blanket in Andy’s hands, and his throat starts to tighten, and he breaks into a coughing fit. Wilhelm looks towards him with concern, but Smithson waves him off.

“Are you sick, Smithson?” The man in question turns back around and nods.

“Yeah, didn’t realize I was sick ‘til now.” Wilhelm hums, standing up and putting the lit cigarette between his lips.

“Well, feel better.” With his free hand, he lazily salutes Smithson goodbye and wanders off to the edges of the camp.

Smithson does not bother to look for him and looks back around to his two friends who are now closer, and concern is blatant on their faces. He prepares to get scolded by Donny and smiles as soon as the two are close enough to hear a whisper. Andy drapes the grey blanket over Smithson’s shoulders, and Donny puts his jacket on top of that blanket.

“Donny you kind of need that-“ Smithson starts.

“Nah, Smitty, you’re a fucking twig, you’ll need it more than I do.” Donny crosses his arms with a grin of his face. Smithson and Andy look at each other for a moment.

Smithson holds in a laugh when Donny takes back his jacket after three seconds of silence, and when Andy laughs, Donny glares him into silence.

“Sorry,” Andy mumbles, his smile still present but Donny nods, putting on his bomber jacket.

“Apparently, you’re the first person to get sick here,” Donny sits down next to Smithson and puts his hands close to the fire for a second. “So, we still got plenty of medicine for you.” Andy pulls out two bottles and looks at the labels.

“We got: Neosalvarsan, which we have to inject, or penicillin.”

“The second one, please.” Smithson wasn’t an expert on medicine, but his mother always gave him penicillin when he wasn’t feeling well. Neosalvarsan sounded familiar to him, but he wasn’t going to risk taking the wrong medicine, even if the results were the same.

Andy tosses the bottle to Smithson, and it lands onto his lap. He reaches out for his coffee that he set down and tells Donny to hold it for a moment. He opens the tiny bottle and takes two pills. He swallows them quickly, grabbing the cup out of Donny’s hand and he drinks the coffee that never really heated up, and finishes it.

“Thank you both,” Smithson says, handing the medicine back to Andy.

“No problem, Smitty,” Donny grins, messing up Smithson’s already messed up hair. “We wouldn’t want ya dying on us, you’re too young to die.”

“I’m not that much younger than you,” Smithson whispers, but his words are toppled by Donny, who is yelling out Omar’s name.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Donny sneers, standing up. Smithson looks to where the Bostoner was heading over and sees Omar with Donny’s favorite, and only, axe.

Andy takes Donny’s spot, and the two laugh when Donny pushes Omar to the floor and picks up the axe.

“He loves that axe huh?” Andy muses.

“Watch, we give him a bat and he completely forgets about the damn thing,” Smithson chuckles, turning back around to the fire. 

He looks behind the flame again, and where Wilhelm and his keen smile used to be, Hugo was there. He doesn't hear Andy's response to his snarky comment, only the rhythmical sharpening of a knife fills Smithson’s ears. It soothed him, made him feel a bit better and the headache that he feels roars a bit louder. 

He rests his head in his hands and closes his eyes. Smithson focuses on nothing but the rhythm and soon enough, he falls asleep.


	13. A Trudge Forward.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello Dear Reader, 
> 
> How was your day? I've been quite sick lately. The change in seasons are probably the cause of my abrupt illnesses. Nevertheless, I hope you all enjoy :)
> 
> Love,
> 
> Classical_Trash

Smithson Utivich remembers being unwell the entire day.

He trudged onwards in the light snow; he was the last one in the make-shift line of Basterds. Kagan stayed behind with him, and Smithson felt Donny’s worried glances piercing his being.

The heavy feeling in his stomach had worsened, not because of the cold that could freeze water in seconds, or the beans that Sakowitz undercooked earlier that day. His problems seemed to be detached from France, but he doesn’t know or understand what they were.

Smithson Utivich had a nightmare that night.

The last time he had one was when he was only 14.

The nightmare consists of the disturbing figures of his mind stared him down, and his hands are shaking. Smithson can’t see anything; he can’t hear anything, his major senses are taken away, and he feels so naked without them.  

Hair, he felt hair. Soft and long. Curly and slightly frizzy. There was a warmth in his palms, and when he had let go of the hair, his hands were cold. So cold that they’re burning, and he wanted to scream.

He woke up with his body sinking in the cold winds, and the hazy night sky watching him freak. Smithson had let out a shiver and drooped his head. He had put a hand to his face to feel a trail that tears have formed, and the sharp coldness of his calloused fingers.  There was a feeling that pricked at his neck, annoying him to no end. Smithson looked around to see his sleeping comrades and the fire that was stomped out hours ago. The winds were the only thing there that seemed alive, and he trembled at their will. He laid back down, wrapping his blanket around his thin body.

Smithson didn’t sleep after that. He let himself believe that he would be fine for the day. His stomach churned as the winds screamed louder. The high note in the air that never stopped was drilled into his mind, and Smithson had hugged himself for warmth.

The sun had risen into the sky and mocked the Jewish man as he trembled in the radiant light.

Kagan had immediately checked on him, to see if the medicine had helped at least a little.

Multiple answers had formed in Smithson’s head. Most were lies to please Kagan, the others were ones of distress. Those answers made Smithson plead for help, to leave this dreaded place.

“Oh yeah, my head feels a bit better now,” Smithson smiled, adding guilt to the churn in his stomach. He sees that the answer satisfied his worried friend as he predicted, and Kagan left him alone at that.

Thinking back on it now, Smithson almost wishes that he did confide in nice, smiley, dopey Kagan.

 

 _“A bunny?”_ Aldo deadpans, looking at the little plush animal in Omar’s hands. Everyone had stopped marching when Omar had pointed out the odd figure on the floor. “Why the fuck is it in the middle of a Nazi-occupied forest?”

Smithson could see little stitches, at the bottoms of the ears. The right arm was missing, but what interested him most was the huge golden locket that was strung around the dirtied, white, plush animal.

“Can I see the necklace?” Smithson asks, making Aldo and Omar look at the pale man. Aldo snatches the bunny and tosses it to Smithson who fumbled when trying to catch it. He carefully takes off the necklace and touches the heart locket that felt like ice. It was as big as his palm and it looked a bit weird on the tiny bunny. Gently, he opens it to see messy writing on a tiny picture of a girl.

 _Marie Delany._ The writing said. The girl looked young, maybe 13 to 15, Smithson guessed.

“It’s just a picture of one Marie Delany,” Smithson boldens his tone for everyone to hear. He adds a little attempt at a French accent when he said the name, but no one seemed to be amused.

“What should we do with it?” Donny asks his comrades, looking over Smithson’s shoulder as he put the locket back onto the plush bunny.

“Just leave it,” Sakowitz had chimed in and the others hummed in agreement. They all watched Smithson in anticipation, and he hesitantly put the bunny and locket onto the floor, letting it lie on a nearby tree root, and they all continue walking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, I’ve always had a thought that when I was done with Memories in France, I would write another story in the same universe, but in Hugo’s perspective. I think it’d be quite interesting to explore his mind.
> 
> How did you think of the new chapter? I’d love to know what my lovely readers think. :)))


	14. A Past Memory.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, how my odd hours keeps me from posting! I do hope you all enjoy,
> 
> Classical_Trash

Wilhelm and Hugo sat next to Smithson who was leaning against the wooden log, reading his book. They spoke fast and heavy, as their once English conversation quickly turned into German, hurting Smithson’s head when he tried to listen to the two.

Smithson tries to relax, but his body felt achy and he wanted to lay down. Glancing towards the men on his right the two seem to be reminiscing. There’s a look in Wilhelm’s eyes that seem fond of whatever he was previously talking about. Smithson couldn’t fully see Hugo’s face, but the corners of his mouth were turned, and the New-Yorker wishes he took German in school.

He shouldn’t pry though. Smithson could already hear his sister scolding whenever he would listen to the quiet conversations that she had with her friends during little walks that he was always invited to. They never talked about anything that could be teased about, usually, it was just school this and school that. When he felt a bit ambitious during those walks, he would mutter things that were unbecoming of him in Polish, embarrassing his sister and causing Smithson to be pinched by the cheek. She never told their parents, as he would apologize later, even if he still found it funny.

He smiles at the memory, missing his family and New York.

Smithson wonders if the two next to him were having that same feeling. Were they remembering things that only the two could understand, or were they just reminiscing on old memories to distract themselves from the endless, cold and bleak forest? What hid behind the German?

_“Oh, Smitty, let people have their privacy,” The Utivich’s eldest child, Marianna, told her little brother once on a winter evening. Their parents were still working and had let them go out and take a walk around their district._

_She took his hand into hers, guiding the seven-year-old away from a couple that sat on the park bench. Marianna apologizes to the two, and they give the siblings a smile that seemed amused at Smithson’s antics._

_“But, Mari, they were talking about Swissland! Don’t you wanna hear what they’re saying?” Marianna walks a bit faster until the couple could no longer be seen by the two. She pauses, taking a quick breather._

_“It’s Switzerland, Smitty,” She smiles. “There are somethings you don’t need to know, you got that?” The elder asks, looking down at the wide-eyed boy. She kneels, putting her hands onto his red scarf and fixing it to cover his neck more. “Besides, you don’t know them. They could have been lying.”_

_“Why would they lie? That seems kind of stupid,” Smithson mumbles, making the fourteen-year-old laugh. She stands back up and a light gust of wind blows her wild, coal-colored hair. The yellow, wool scarf she wore stood out in her dark dress and jacket. There was a sense of adoration that Smithson felt that stamped his idolization of his older sister._

_“I don’t know, but I know you’ll never lie about such stupid things, right?” Smithson grabs Marianna’s hand this time and nods his head with a bright smile. Bright blue eyes looked up to deep hazel ones, and that sense of adoration was shared._

“Smithson, are you okay?” He hears and he snaps out of his head. He looks down at his open book in his lap, water droplets on the pages he was previously reading. He wipes his face with his hand, sniffling. “You were crying.”

“My eyes were just dry, I’m alright,” Smithson responds to whoever it was who spoke.

Little memories continued to play in his head, and the crying never really stopped. He continued to feel like stopping whatever he was doing to meltdown. To just spill his head and feelings to everyone.

 _Selfish thoughts,_ the little voice in Smithson’s head would whisper, and he couldn’t help but agree. So, he keeps quiet, even if the silence consumes him, Smithson feels alright for a blissful moment.

 


	15. Unconvinced and Fleeting Relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of miss my short, weekly chapters sometimes, because editing these behemoth chapters takes a lot out of me. I do hope you all enjoy though, 
> 
> Love,
> 
> Classical_Trash

 

It was slightly warmer in France. Smithson’s chest felt heavy, but it was most likely due to the little cough that he has developed.

“It’s nothing bad,” Smithson had told Omar when the shorter man had noticed the raspy breathing and disgusting coughs. “It’ll go away, I promise.”

Breakfast had already been made, and Smithson took the amount he thought he could take (even if he sort of knew he would hurl it out later in the day) and gulped it all up so that he could start his patrol around camp. Smithson was always last to do patrols, to his slight relief. He learns from others' mistakes better that way.

His rifle was at his side, and his little pack was on his back. His canteen of water is in his pocket, next to his folded up map. He takes a deep breath and shivers at the sudden intake of cold air. Smithson sees Donny watching him with concern at the corner of his eye, so he turns to the Bear Jew and smiles. Donny doesn’t seem to be convinced but he does look away. Smithson doesn’t try to think about it, and instead walks further away from the camp. The forest swallowing him whole.

 

Smithson is pretty sure that he is lost. Checking his map twelve more times, and he’s positive that no one has told him about this area that’s only labeled 17. Under his boots were lines from tires, showing that vehicles or wagons had come by earlier or so often that it has permanently marked the ground.

He tries not to think about it that much because if there are vehicles, that means Nazis have been or will be here.

Smithson looks up into the sky. The sun had been shadowed by grey clouds, and he hopes to find his camp soon. His hand inches closer to his rifle, trying to keep his anxiousness at ease. He taps on the cold metal and holds taps his foot as he thinks about what to do as he stares at the confusing drawing of a map.

His thought process was interrupted by a knot in his throat that choked him. His fingertips lightly pressed onto his neck, dropping the map and he coughs in agony. His throat stings and tears well up at the corners of his eyes. Smithson puts a fist over his mouth to muffle it slightly, but it’s just too much and he buckles to the floor.

Everything feels dizzy, and his head is stuck in a warm fog. _Water,_ he remembers, and he reaches into his pocket to feel the skin numbing metal of his canteen and quickly taking it out. Twisting the cap off, Smithson has trouble breathing easier. He feels his throat close, and _oh god, I can’t breathe._ He quickly puts the cold canteen to his rosy lips and pours the water into his mouth.

The water almost felt like he was swallowing needles, but he didn’t care. His head returns from the fog, and he takes deep breathes.

In and out.

In and out.

And once again, he feels calm.

 _“What the hell are you doing on the floor, Private?”_ A thick, ridiculous, southern accent barks and Smithson scrambles to his feet, turning around to see the Lieutenant.

“Aldo-uh, lieutenant, sir,” Smithson states, rubbing his hand still holding onto the canteen. “Thank god you found me.”

“You should thank god, what the hell are you doing out here? This area should be marked as dangerous,” Aldo takes something out of his breast-pocket, a pocket watch in his gloved hands. “You should’ve been back at the camp twenty minutes ago! They all prolly’ think you’re a dead son of a bitch.”

“I’m sorry,” Smithson mutters, looking down, “I just got lost, sir.”

It’s quiet for a moment and Smithson hears a sigh come out of Aldo.

“Is that your map on the ground?” Smithson looks up to see the man pointing at the map next to the Jewish man’s boots.

“Yeah, I uh dropped it when I tripped.”

“I heard you coughing your lungs out, Utivich, don’t lie to me. Give me that map.”

“Yessir.” Smithson quickly grabs the paper and walks over to Aldo who was a lot closer than expected. Surprisingly, Aldo gently takes the map and looks over it with his face furrowed.

“Well shit, Utivich, you got a Nazi made map here.” Aldo has a grin on his face, and he ruffles Smithson’s hair with his free hand. “Come take a look at these numbers.”

Smithson leans in closer to Aldo and the map. The lieutenant points to the 17, tapping the paper.

“They tend to add that little line on their ones, and they cross their sevens to make sure no one mistakes the two.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.”

“Don’t even bother, just a tip I thought I told y’all back in the start.” Aldo ruffles Smithson’s hair again and chuckles.

“In my defense,” he coughs into his wrist, “It’s been a while, sir.”

“I guess so, you get a free pass then,” Aldo hums and the two look at each other in the eyes. Smithson realized that he may have bright blues, Aldo had cloudy oceans for eyes. There were things in those eyes that Smithson never wants to figure out. “Let’s get you back to the camp, pretty sure Donny and Kagan are worried about ya.”

“Oh, they’re going to kill me…” Smithson groans as they start walking, Smithson following the others lead.

“Yep, well at least Donny will try,” Aldo states and it’s silent for a short second. “Stiglitz won’t let that happen though; he likes you too much for you to die by the hands of Donny.”

“I guess,” Smithson shrugs. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why are you out here? If I’m not supposed to be here,” he pauses, “Sorry if I overstep-“

“Nah, you’re alright, Utivich,” Aldo reassures, “You’ll find out later. Right now, what I’m doing is underdevelopment, got it?”

“Yessir.”

“Now, let me ask a more serious question.” Aldo glances over to the Jewish man, slightly tensed. “Are you…Okay?”

Smithson freezes for a moment. Kagan appears in his mind, and he smiles.

“Yeah, it’s just a cold, don’t worry, sir.” And even though Smithson gives his best smile, it doesn’t feel like Aldo is satisfied.

 

They got back when the sun was back out and shining on the thin layers of snow. Donny was circling the camp and when he spotted Aldo and Smithson, a wide smile grew on his face.

“Smitty! We thought you were fucking dead!” He pulled Smithson into a quick hug that surprised the shorter man. Donny leans into Smithson’s space, whispering into his ear “You return 40 minutes late again, you’ll never leave me or Kagan’s sight, got it?”

Smithson nods, a sense of freight running through his body.

“Great,” Donny pushes Smithson away and looks to Aldo who’s already walking closer to the campfire. “You better talk to Hugo, Smitty. He’s been anxious ever since ya left. Walking around the campfire, muttering things in German that Wicki says is quite concerning.” Donny looks back to Smithson and ruffles his hair, laughing as Smithson tries to get it back to its normal state. He didn’t want to do it when Aldo was watching him, afraid that he might make fun of his flimsy attempt at fixing his hair.

“I’ll go” he feels his throat tighten and he coughs into the sleeve of his jacket, “-talk to him.” Donny pats Smithson’s back and points to where Hugo is.

“Good luck,” Donny says as Smithson starts to walk. The blue-eyed man looks back and gives a reassuring smile, but Donny doesn’t seem too convinced, but he does look away, letting Smithson walk away from the Boston man.

 

Smithson didn’t get five feet closer to Hugo before the German spotted him, and even though Smithson gives him his most polite smile, Hugo looks pissed.

And that mortified Smithson.

“Hey, Stiglitz-“

“Du idiot,” Hugo frowns. “Wie Kannst du dich verirren? Was hast du gemacht? Wandern? Ein schöner Spaziergang?” Hugo hisses out. “Antworte mir. Antworte mir, _bitte.”_ His voice sounds almost like pleading, and Smithson feels the desperate need for answers radiate from Hugo, but his throat is tightening, and his mind swirls. What should he say? What should he say?

Smithson doesn’t know how to respond, so he stares at Hugo with shock. The man is looking away from him, down to his feet as the two realize how quiet the camp is, and Smithson can now feel the eyes on them.

“Hugo,” A voice calls out. Deep and slightly raspy. _Wilhelm,_ Smithson identifies, and he tries to get Hugo to look him in the eyes, but it won’t work. He steps to the side, letting Hugo walk away.

“I’m sorry,” Smithson mumbles underneath his breath, eyes still on him.

He searches around for Kagan, who sits by the fire with Omar. Smithson hurries over towards them and sits down next to Kagan, who softly asks _“You okay?”_

It was slightly warmer in France today, but Smithson felt so cold.

“I’m okay, don’t worry about it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Sinking: Part I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A two-part chapter, that I planned on updating today and then on the 25th because of Christmas :)) 
> 
> Enjoy,
> 
> Classical_Trash

There’s a thick silence in the air that night. Hugo hasn’t been seen in three to five hours, and no one really wants to search for him.

“He’s okay. Stiglitz isn’t far from camp; he just needs to let some anger out.” Wilhelm has told everyone, to reassure the Basterds that their comrade will be fine.

Smithson has yet to have that little reassurance from the Austrian. Everyone seems to know that Smithson’s been avoiding the topic of Hugo Stiglitz and they have all respected his implied wishes.

The eyes never left him, and there’s pressure on Smithson to not react. He tries to hide his coughing as best as he can, but it’s a lot harder than it used to be.

Smithson sits alone. His weary body watching everyone watch him. He feels their eyes, he can smell their feelings of morbid invasiveness. They all reek with curiosity, and he’s not willing to satisfy their needs.

Smithson is afraid of what they expect of him, what they think of this pitiful shell.

And he has his book in his lap opened, exposing Charlotte's quest for love. Smithson can’t read, he can’t comprehend anything right now. He's too weary. Too shook up to try and understand what had happened. 

That doesn't stop the constant asking of _What did you do?_ Smithson doesn't have an answer though, and he wants to bury himself in the cold feeling of his hands.

He stares into the emptied sky. The Moon is gone, not wanting to see what has transpired. So, no light shines on his face, no stars, no angels, no happiness. There are feelings in his chest that will die within him because he believes that they are pathetic and selfish. So, he stays alone, holding onto the edges of his book as he tries to focus on Charlotte and her adventures.

 

 

Smithson decided to make breakfast for everyone.

He was the first one to wake up. He couldn’t sleep, he didn’t feel anything close to drowsiness last night, and so, he stayed up all night.

He stands near the fire, stirring the pot above the flames as he feels the steam glaze over his face. Smithson looks over to everyone’s sleeping bodies.

Wilhelm is gone though. Off doing patrol, which he volunteered to do when everyone was already sleeping, and Sakowitz, who was supposed to patrol, was in a mood. That night, the New-yorker heard Sakowitz thank the Austrian to no end, but Wilhelm just told him that he was “Happy to patrol” and for Sakowitz to “Get some sleep.”  That last line was spoken a bit louder than everything else, and Smithson flinched.

Smithson feels great near the food, the warmth enveloping his senses and he feels a tired smile grow on his face, but the rousing of his comrades waking up forces Smithson to snap out of it.

The stern eyes of the Gestapo Killer were the first to look toward Smithson, and the New York boy doesn’t dare to look his way. Pale fingers tremble in fear but mostly hope that Stiglitz doesn’t walk over here. Smithson doesn’t care if the man will apologize at his abrupt outrage; Smithson needs to just sort his head, his thoughts. _Feelings?_ Smithson hears in the shadows of his mind. He snorts in amusement and waves away the ridiculous feat and focuses backs on the food. 

He finishes cooking soon enough, everyone already awake and ready to shove food down their throats. 

Smithson doesn't eat though. 

"Not hungry," he explains to Zimmerman who scooped every plate of food.  A look of pure confusion was on his face, but the man doesn't continue further and Smithson smiles in relief. He walks away to sit underneath the tree that glared down at everyone below it. But he hears his surname be called and turns around. 

Wilhelm stands with a cigarette between his lips, and a soft smile on his face as he makes a hand gesture to signal Smithson. Hesitant, he walks over and whispers an ant-like "Hello." 

"Take a walk with me, Utivich," Wilhelm hums, and Smithson sucks in a quick breath. Wilhelm seems to have had noticed the conflict in the younger mans' eyes and puts a hand on his shoulder. "I just want to have a chat with someone who can keep up a good conversation. I would ask the Lieutenant, but you know how he is." 

Smithson chuckles, and Wilhelm seems a bit more open than Smithson remembers. 

"Let's go then," the New-Yorker states. "Which way first?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, I've been finishing up essays and the sort for school, and now I have a break! 
> 
> If any of you have noticed...This story is apart of a series(The only part so far) so I hope you all are at least a bit excited about that. If you have any questions about the series, do ask! 
> 
> Thank you for reading,
> 
> Classical_Trash


	17. Sinking: Part II.

Three feet between them, and a heavy air making Smithson’s shoulders sulk. He’s confused as to why Wilhelm asked for him. The reasoning held no weight to Smithson, as the two have never really spoken before. And even if the others don’t show it as much, they’re quite smart in their respective fields.

“I love the winter,” Wilhelm looks over to the younger man, the cigarette long gone, and all his face had was a polite smile. “I live in Nevada though, so it took me a while to adjust, but since you’re a new yorker, you had no problem with France’s weath-“

Smithson brings his sleeve up to his mouth and harshly coughs for more than a minute, making the two stop walking.

“-or not. That sounds _awful_.” Wilhelm sympathizes once Smithson seems to settle down.

“It’s just a cough, it used to be way worse,” Smithson tries to joke but Wilhelm scrunches his face slightly, causing the other to flush in embarrassment. “I don’t really know how to get rid of it.”   

“Medicine and some good soup,” The Austrian advises, “Not to be rude, but no one here can make a decent bowl of soup, it’s always too thick or too watery. Don’t even get me started on when Sakowitz first made dinner…” Wilhelm trails off, putting a hand on his chest as he gags. Smithson laughs, his head down, looking at the snowy floors of the forest as he tries to calm himself, the two start walking again, Wilhelm taking a slower pace, making Smithson think it’s for his sake.

“It was awful, but it was still food,” The blue-eyed man defends his absent comrade. “Let’s hope that his fiancé knows how to cook, or they’ll both die of food poisoning.” Wilhelm lets out a deep chuckle that sent a little shiver down Smithson’s spine.

“How about you, Utivich? Do you have a lady to come home to?” Wilhelm asks innocently enough, but he sees the contemplation on Smithson’s face, and he adds: “You don’t have to answer.”

“It’s alright,” Smithson waves off, “I don’t. Just finished my, uh, four years of college, didn’t really have time to meet any girl because out of nowhere, boom!” Smithson makes a popping noise with his mouth, “I’m in France.” Wilhelm laughs, and Smithson smiles, his confidence boosting just a bit. “Never really made friends in high school, I was too busy helping my parents or studying, or just walking around with my sister.”

“Your sister?”

“Marianna Utivich.”

Smithson glances over to Wilhelm, expecting something more than this mundane topic(And his sister, but he doesn't want to think about her now). Too many questions grow in his head, but he keeps them at bay. He puts a hand to his face, feeling a ferocious heat from his cheek.

“What were you studying in college?”

“English, literature, all that stuff,” The man hums, quickly taking his hand off his face. “I wanna become a teacher. Always liked the idea of it, and all my teachers said I would be a good one, but I don’t really know.” Smithson shrugs his shoulders, glancing over to Wilhelm during the pause in their conversation. The pause consumed by the crunching of snow beneath their boots.

“You would be a wonderful teacher, Utivich.”

“You think? I’m not a good public speaker, get, uh, anxious a lot, ya know?” Smithson tells him, but Wilhelm shakes his head.

“Utivich, you have a good head on your shoulder, don’t deny your intelligence. You’re too young to already be doubting yourself,” Wilhelm scolds, but he’s tender and the compliments make Smithson’s face heat up more than it already is.

“I’m not that younger than you.”

“I’m 33.”

“Jesus, never mind.” The two laugh. “I wouldn’t think you’re 12 years older than me, Wicki.”

“Thank you, I appreciate the compliment, but I can already feel the grey hairs coming in, Utivich. Soon, I’ll be an old man.”

“Are you afraid of that?”

“No.”

There’s quietness after. Smithson wants to ask one question, but it seems accusatory, and he doesn’t want to be rude. Apparently, his mixed emotions were boldly painted on his face, because Wilhelm says:

“What is it you want to say?” Smithson hesitates. He stutters and chokes on his own half-finished words. He coughs way too much, and the two stop walking. “We should probably head back-“

“I know you wanted to talk to me about something, Wicki,” Smithson blurts out. “What is it that _you_ want to say?” He whispers, and it’s all so embarrassing to him, but he trudges on.

And Wilhelm doesn’t look surprised in any slightest way, and Smithson doesn’t understand why that makes him so mad, and he doesn’t know what to do. His throat clenches, and he feels his head rage, and he wants to cough, but he holds it in. Waiting for what Wilhelm will say.

Three feet between them, and they look at each other through the thick quietness.

“He cares for you,” Wilhelm states. “He says you’re too young to be here. He cares.”

Smithson stands there, a little smile on his face, and his head feels empty for the shortest of seconds and he wanted to sink into that feeling. 

Body slackens, eyes closed, and he falls to the floor. Wilhelm hurrying to pick him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lie, I update two days before when I was supposed to, but I just couldn't help but update sooner :))  
> I might write a little Christmas special tomorrow, let me know if that's a good idea! 
> 
> Until next time, Happy Holidays!
> 
> Classical_Trash


	18. Marianna's Memories (The Interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little interlude.  
> I got to give my pretty child, Marianna a little bit more time with her brother because I made the two incredibly happy. 
> 
> Enjoy, 
> 
> Classical_Trash

_Marianna smiles, wrapping a red scarf loosely around Smithson’s neck. He had asked his sister to help him get ready for his date. The two look at the 17-year-old in the mirror. He’s grown, but not too much to where he’s taller than his sister who’s 6’1. Smithson shakes his head, and the woman hums, her eyes looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “What did you say?”_

_“You never told me why you call me Smitty.”_

_“Because your name is too long.” She pulls on the collar of the black coat that stopped to his knees, making sure it’s straightened._

_“Your name is four syllables!”_

_She laughs, tugging on the scarf a bit and then looks back to the mirror._

_“There’s a comic strip in the newspaper, you were three, maybe four, and I had you in my lap. I pointed to the characters, and you laughed too. It was called Smitty, and I believed it was a sign.” She smiles, tired and worn. Marianna has been working in a factory, she never talks about it much with Smithson, so he doesn’t know what she does. She’s always tired, never eats sometimes because she goes to sleep immediately after returning home. So, he started to cherish these moments where his sister didn't seem so sad and frayed._

_“That’s very nice.” The two look at Smithson in the mirror again._

_“Isn’t it? It was good for me too, since I didn’t like your name,” Marianna grins and pats Smithson’s shoulder. “Don’t you look dapper, Smitty! Hopefully, Papa isn’t upset that you’re borrowing his coat. It’s for a good reason anyway.”_

_“A date is a good reason?”_

_Marianna nods and turns him around, pushing the boy out of the bathroom._

_“Thank you for helping me.”_

_“Mhmm, you’re welcome, now go! Go have fun with Ummm…”_

_And Smithson doesn’t want to look at her._

_“What’s wrong?”_

_“Smitty?”_

_“Smithson?” And in her voice, he felt the faded and frayed that he tries to ignore. But it's laid out right in front of Smithson, and he looks up to see the person he looks up to in a state that seemed so crumpled._

_“I’ll tell you who it is only if the date goes well,” he smiles at her, tries to make everything at ease, but the worry in her face is still there._

_There’s a pause as she looks at Smithson._

_“Are you dating an older woman?”_

_“Mari-“_

_“Ah!” She grins. The worries are, although not gone, but now in the shadows of her face, a little laugh in her throat, and a pout on her lips. “Smitty, I do suggest you start dating girls your age. Not a woman that’s older than Mamma,” she leans down to hug her brother, a bit tighter than usual. “But, if you are dating an older woman for her money, shame on you, Smitty.”_

_“I’m not dating an older woman,” Smithson mumbles into her shoulder, making the other chuckle._

_“Then why don’t you tell me your mystery lover?” The two let go and Smithson fixes his scarf._

_“After the date, okay?” Smithson repeats, and Marianna puts her hands up in surrender._

_“Mhmm, gotcha gotcha.” She sighs, and the two leave the hallway and towards the apartment door._

_“Have fun, Smitty,” Her smile light, and Smithson walks past her with a nod._

_“Goodbye! I’ll tell you everything when I come back!” Smithson promises, and he hears her laugh._

_“You better!”_

_Down the steps of the Utivich residence, where people passed by in a hurry to go to different places._

_He looks back to Marianna one last time and proceeds to head out into the busy street._

 

"So, you were named after a comic strip?" Donny had asked, looking to Smithson who scrunched up his face in slight agreement. 

Kagan shook his head, the light of the fire near them had accentuated his disappointment. 

They have all been in France for two weeks, and this is the first real conversation Smithson had. 

"No, he was nicknamed after one." 

"Does it matter?" Donny had glared at the other, not yet used to Kagan's urge to always be correct. "I agree with your sister, Smitty. Your name is _kinda weird_." 

"It's not that weird!" Smithson argued, and the two others laughed, making the New-yorker laugh too. 

And in the distance, he remembers hearing the laughter of familiarity to the right of him, but only Kagan was there. 

He didn't think about it and had let himself relax into the rare moments of warmth. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the comic strip Smitty is a real thing! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smitty_(comic_strip)
> 
> I feel like we all needed just a little bit of happiness if you get what I mean, and the Utivich siblings are awfully happy for now.
> 
> Thanks for reading :))


	19. Taking Steps.

Smithson quickly sits up. A sharp pain coursing through his body which makes him regret the motion. He breathes slowly to soothe the hard pounding of his heart. Smithson darts his eyes everywhere to the heavenly stars mocking him once more, to the frigid dirt and grass floor that was underneath him and the thin scratchy blanket. But when he looks to the left and right of him, he sees sleeping comrades and a dim lamp that was illuminating the Lieutenants figure. He was sleeping against a tree. A piece of paper(most likely a map)in his hands that were rested on his lap. 

Smithson looks away and back to his own hands that were dirty and calloused. 

_ How did I get-oh.  _

He remembers the forest, Wicki, and him fainting, and instantly buries his face into his hands, not caring how dirty they were. 

“I’m pathetic,” he murmurs to himself, moving his hands into his dry and curly hair. He takes a deep breath and it throws him into a coughing fit. Smithson tries to be quiet, but the mucus stuck in his dry throat is anything but quiet. He looks around himself again to see if he could find his bag of things, but it’s nowhere near him. The sharp pain grows with every movement, but the need to drink water overwhelms the pain. So, he cautiously tries to stand up, putting a hand to the ground to support himself. With more staggering than none, he gets up. A smile grows on his face as he congratulates himself for not falling. 

It was like a puzzle, going around his sleeping comrades, trying not to disturb them all while trying to find his bag. Smithson did step on Sakowitz’s hand, but the man never came out of his slumber, much to Smithson’s relief. 

His bag was in the middle of their temporary campsite, right next to the burnt logs and patches of grass. He finds his metal water bottle that was half full and he savors the freezing cold and the slight metallic tasting water. 

He breathes out, the pain in his body only getting weaker the more relaxed he felt. He sits down on the chopped down tree trunk, letting his bag rest next to him. 

Smithson didn’t notice his eyes slowly shutting until he heard footsteps to the left of him. He looks over to where he hears the footsteps and his mind goes blank for a split second. 

“Uh, hello, Stiglitz,” Smithson says, his voice slightly raspy. The man standing up had a cigarette between his lips, and the burning end was quite nice to look at when most everything else was darkened. “Are you going out for patrol?” The german shakes his head, pointing next to the younger man and with slight hesitance, Smithson tells him to sit down. 

The two sit only a foot away from each other, looking away from the other person. Hugo throws his cigarette to the floor, lightly putting it out.

“Es tut mir leid.” 

Smithson turns towards Hugo who is already looking his way. 

“You know I don’t speak German, right?” And he gets a sharp laugh from Hugo who glances away from Smithson. 

“Speaking what I want to say in German first makes it easier to say in English,” the older man explains in his usual low tone.

“Oh, that makes sense," Smithson nods. "That’s what I did when I was taught French in High School,” Smithson thinks back on his younger days, but he snaps back to reality. “What  _ did  _ you say?” 

Hugo looks into Smithson’s eyes. Rich brown looking at pale blue. 

“I’m sorry, Smithson.” 

And Smithson feels a tear roll down his cheek, but he smiles. 

“Why am I crying?” he chuckles, wiping his face with his jacket sleeve. “So pathetic,” he mumbles, but Hugo scoffs. 

“Takes a lot to cry in front of someone. You are not pathetic.” 

“Ah,” Smithson stops for a moment, feeling a warmth in his face and he wipes his face again to hide the blush. “Well, I forgive you.” Smithson smiles at Hugo, and the German returns it, even if it wasn’t as wide or bright as Smithsons, it made the Jewish man’s heart beat a bit faster. 

He feels a warmth surround hims, even if the campfire wasn’t lit. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive, crazy, no?  
> Things have been wild with Coronavirus, and I fortunately haven't been infected, but I did get the flu and the social distancing has taken quite the toll on me. Especially the online classes I have to do in order to graduate.  
> I also lost the laptop that had all my notes for this story, and that had made me feel so terrible and stopped wanting to write for awhile. But here I am! I have a new laptop, and even though I don't have my notes, I'll manage :)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


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